


A Series of Negotiations

by Still_and_Clear



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: Angst, M/M, Psychological Drama, Romance, Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-19
Updated: 2015-10-19
Packaged: 2018-04-27 04:44:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,922
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5034217
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Still_and_Clear/pseuds/Still_and_Clear
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim and Oswald simplify and complicate their negotiations</p><p>Set in S2.</p>
            </blockquote>





	A Series of Negotiations

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in season 2. It includes some events and characters, ignores others.

Jim has just finished detailing his request, keeping it as terse as he can. He is revolted by his own need to come to this man for help – and he tries to limit communication like it might contaminate him.

Cobblepot glares back at him, mouth pursed. Jim’s managed to offend him again, somehow, and he can't really afford to alienate him, needs this favour. What this time? What's hit a nerve? Jim is tactless and Cobblepot is hypersensitive, and he has no idea why they've never aimed a punch at each other yet.

Desperate as he is, though, he refuses to smile and play nice - their relationship way beyond any such pretence. He stares back at him, stone-faced.

Cobblepot runs his tongue over his teeth, irritated.

‘Do you think you could _ever_ manage ‘please’, Detective? Just once? It’s a simple enough gesture, but without it, I increasingly find that I feel rather used and abused’

He punctuates these last words by rapping his knuckles on the table. He is in a rage, Jim can see that. He’s seen him in lots of different moods. Desperate – pleading for his life. Manipulative – wheedling and flattering to get his way. Needy and hopeful – trying to forge some kind of friendship with him. He’s seen him wanting, too – Jim’s not stupid. He can tell when someone wants him like that.

This, though, this is a fury that he has only just managing to control. His movements are jerky, every word is bitter, delivered like a slap, and his green eyes are cold and sharp, fixed on him. 

Even the suit he’s wearing is bulkier than usual, more elaborate. He’s probably wearing it to try and look bigger, but it only dwarfs him, draws attention to how slight he is. It definitely doesn’t impress Jim, who knows exactly how heavy he is, and how he’s built – the memories of hauling him from the trunk of Harvey’s car, and of shoving him against the wall outside Barbara’s apartment both rich and detailed.

Jim watches him carefully. There’s no attempt now to hide the intelligence that used to show itself only intermittently. Or maybe it wasn’t hidden at all before, only tempered by his painfully obvious desire for friendship – so apparent that he may as well as reached out and grasped at Jim with his long thin fingers.

His mind is sharp and merciless and wide-ranging. Jim finds now that Cobblepot can usually preempt his questions and requests, with a knowing smile on his face. This should probably worry him, even frighten him, but he finds that he is strangely fascinated by it. His thought process is completely alien to Jim’s own, unconcerned with rules and norms – and it’s addictive to see the familiar altered through his sharp eyes, to perceive links and details that were hidden before.

This first time is more a quarrel than anything else. With anyone else, Jim would have traded punches. But not here. The air would have been cleared with anyone else, too – but not here. 

He is ready to leave, Oswald walking him to a more discreet exit. Jim’s hand is actually on the door handle, keen for the cool night air to clear his head, when he hears his teasing, spiteful voice behind him 

‘Be good, Jim.’ 

Rage spikes through him, takes hold of him – and before he knows what he is doing he’s spun on his heel, is advancing on Cobblepot, glaring into his face.

Oswald’s eyes widen in panic – but bravado quickly pastes a defiant expression on his face, chin jutting, eyes burning into Jim’s own. 

Jim’s not sure whether it’s anger or a reckless attempt to win the game of brinksmanship that they insist on playing with each other, over and over – but he steps forward again – pinning Cobblepot between him and the wall, deliberately placing his hands on the wall at either side of his head. Jim knows him well enough by now to know that he’s as reckless and stubborn as he is, will never back down from a challenge like this.

There’s a fierce burn of satisfaction at being proved right when long hands slide beneath his coat and tightly grab his shirt at the waist – until now they’re pressed together, both breathing hard. Refusing to advance, refusing to retreat.

Jim suddenly feels a sharp pain at his waist. Cobblepot’s eagerness has made him accidentally pinch him. Jim’s not sure whether it’s an involuntary movement or foolhardiness, but his hips buck against Cobblepot’s, and he’s still honest enough with himself to know that Cobblepot will be able to discern a dare on his face.

And he does. Cobblepot’s eyes spark in recognition, and he drags Jim down the corridor to a small door that it turns out leads to a small bedroom. Jim pushes him through and strides after him, slamming the door behind them.

Stepping forward blind, his hands manage to find his hips, and Jim drives him backwards until he’s got him pressed tight against a wall again. His hips roll forward slowly, more reflexively than anything else. Cobblepot pushes back against him, and Jim is thankful the room is pitch black, otherwise he’d have seen Jim bite down hard on his own lip to stifle a groan.

His harsh breathing still probably gives him away anyway, though, and as their movements become more insistent, it’s getting increasingly difficult to hold back a moan. Cobblepot must have noticed, because he brings a hand up to press warningly against Jim’s mouth. 

Jim can hear the almost-whine in Cobblepot’s breathing and – in turn – forces himself to prise his hand off Cobblepot’s hip for a moment, lifting it to the back of his head, encouraging him towards Jim’s shoulder to muffle the sound. He gets the message, and presses his face against Jim’s chest.

They both finish quickly. As their breathing slows, their grip on each other loosens and they step back a little. Cobblepot doesn’t utter a word and Jim doesn’t wait to hear anything, doesn’t want to hear anything, heading back towards the door and leaving as quickly as possible. 

He calls Lee on the way back to the city and tells her that he’ll stay at own place tonight. 

When he gets home, he eats and showers in silence. He feels like he’s balancing on a fine line where he knows exactly what he did, but isn’t thinking about it – and any sound or distraction could disturb that, and God knows what he would do then.

**

The second time is the very next time they meet, despite Jim’s stern resolve that it was a moment of complete madness, of stress, of misplaced frustration – never, ever to be repeated. 

They talk in that ludicrously grand room like nothing ever happened. No-one watching would ever have suspected anything had changed. Besides , Cobblepot had always stood too damn close anyway – made his attraction perfectly clear.

There’s no break in the tension like he might have expected, though. Cobblepot is still pushy and insinuating, and Jim still feels acutely uncomfortable in his presence. They talk business, Oswald’s grin growing wider as Jim’s morals become more elastic, requesting favours he would never have considered before. The horror of what had happened at the precinct, to… to Essen – his mind still shies away from thinking about that – had forced him to acknowledge that, sometimes, the end justifies the means.

He waits for the rush of guilt after he’s finished talking to him about the favour he needs, and exactly why he needs it – but there’s only a sense of relief. He feels cleaner for actually saying it out loud- the thoughts only getting more distorted and threatening the longer they stay in his head, like secrets always do. Confession is good for the soul. And Cobblepot’s far from judgmental – there’s no surprise or disapproval on his face.

He offers to show him out again. And _now_ the atmosphere shifts, when they’re no longer in the room that is about business and favours, walking instead down dimly lit hallways. There’s a familiar tightening low in his abdomen, and he can see the muscle in Cobblepot’s jaw twitch. Neither does anything, though, and he suspects that the silent power struggle is actually inciting them both.

Just as they’re nearing the door, one of them, or maybe both of them, steps marginally closer. It’s enough, anyway, for their shoulders to brush – and that’s apparently all it takes, with Cobblepot’s hands coming up to grasp at his sleeves and drag him closer, just as Jim turns swiftly to push him backwards. 

They both aim for that same room again, slamming the door shut behind them and stumbling until they hit a wall. Jim hears himself exhale harshly at the blessed release of tension that he’s only just realised he’s been carrying since last week. There’s a brief flash of anger that he’s betrayed a weakness until he hears a matching gasp from Cobblepot, and then his mind clears altogether – only focusing on keeping a tight grip on Cobblepot’s hips, and hitting the angle that makes him push back sharply.

He stays at his own place again that night. The silence is soothing, instead of vital, this time.

**

After the third time, Cobblepot’s voice cuts through the dark room as he’s straightening his clothes and catching his breath, getting ready to leave. 

‘I hear you have a new Captain.’

Jim pauses for a moment, wondering if he’s digging for information, before realising that Cobblepot probably knows more than he does, and wonders why he bothered asking at all. He can feel him waiting expectantly for an answer.

‘Yeah. He started a couple of days ago.’ As an afterthought, he adds, ‘Seems tough.’

Cobblepot doesn’t respond immediately, and so Jim leaves.

**

The next time, as he hears the now familiar rustle of clothes being smoothed - he decides to make a small remark, like Cobblepot did last time. Maybe it trivialises what they’ve done. Just feeding an appetite. No different than if Jim had accepted the wine he had wanted to share after their meeting.

‘Do you actually trust Zsasz?’

The sound of rustling fabric stops abruptly. Jim bites his tongue and wonders why he can’t make small talk worth a damn. He hears Cobblepot draw a breath to answer.

‘I…no - not trust in the sense that you mean it. I have faith that I can predict his behaviour, given my understanding of his motivations.’

Jim digests this for a moment, and then tries for another throwaway comment.

‘I don’t trust him. Not even like you mean.’

He buttons his coat and leaves.

**

The time after that, the new boss had spent most of the day discussing his plans to focus on Cobblepot’s removal. Jim can hear his words over and over in the back of his head while he carefully negotiates with Cobblepot and wonders when he’d become so two-faced.

The stress makes him even hungrier than usual, deliberately walking far too close to Cobblepot as they head down the hallway, and pressing him back wards as soon as their room was in sight, sliding him bodily along the wall, keeping one hand on his hip as he reaches the other behind him to open the door – unwilling to lose the contact by simply shoving him through it, like he usually does.

When he comes, his head tips back, and his mind feels perfectly, fantastically still. He somehow keeps his groan buried in his chest. Cobblepot’s slim hands slide off his hips, and there’s a pang of residual hunger at the sensation of his long fingers trailing lightly over the fabric.

He’s taking a little longer than usual to straighten his clothes and compose his face before he leaves.

‘So, ought I feel privileged to be Gotham’s enemy number one?’

Jim knew it was likely that Cobblepot was already aware of Barnes’ crusade against him. He probably knows what Barnes had for breakfast that morning, too – as well as any sins and indiscretions. 

Still, he feels a stubborn little knot of tension finally loosen to hear it said aloud, to know that Cobblepot knows what’s happening. He’s dishonest everywhere else these days, with everyone else – he doesn’t want to add to his list of sins.

Jim tilts his head. ‘I though enemy number one was your ambition all along?’

There’s a small huff of amusement from Cobblepot.

‘It’s more of a by-product, really.’

Jim leaves briskly.

**

The next time, Jim arrives after working a very, very long shift where every two-bit crook had apparently felt like taking a swing at him. He sees Cobblepot’s eyes flicker to his rapidly bruising jaw during their meeting, and when he presses his hand against Jim’s mouth later, to muffle the moan he knows is coming, Jim thinks his hand is a little lighter than usual.

‘Long day?’ he asks afterwards, his tone casual.

Jim rubs at the back of his neck, kneading the muscle there. He had been tempted – tired and sore – to rest his forehead against Cobblepot’s while they… but this would have been a violation of the unspoken rules of engagement they’ve established.

Jim sighs. ‘Some days, everyone just seems to want to aim a punch at you.’

There’s an amused snort at that. ‘And you with such a charming personality, too.’

Jim laughs before he can stop himself.

He wonders if Cobblepot is smiling in the dark, but does not look back to see as he opens the door to leave.

**

The next time he’s there, Cobblepot seems unusually distracted during their meeting. Not that he’s not paying attention to Jim – Jim has never known anyone else who stares at him quite so intently – but he looks troubled. Something gnawing at him.

When they’re slamming the door behind them an hour later, Cobblepot’s hands on his hips are hard enough to bruise. Jim finds that he likes it, that it makes pleasure dance and spark across the small of his back. In return, he gives back what Cobblepot apparently needs tonight - even more frantic than usual, hoisting him up against the wall a little and pinning him in place with his hips. When he comes, Jim feels a rush of satisfaction, and his own body follows fast.

He can hear, afterwards, that fabric is not being smoothed down quite so smoothly or briskly – his movements sound shakier, less assured. Jim casts about for something to say, even as the thought scratches at the back of his head that he should just leave.

‘Harvey wound up with two black eyes today.’

There’s a beat of silence, and then, ‘Oh?’

‘Pissed off two suspects at the same time. One aimed for the left, then as he was coming back up, the other one went for the right.’ As an afterthought, he adds, ‘Looks like a raccoon.’

Cobblepot chuckles weakly. There’s a moment of silence, and then he asks, ‘I didn’t hurt you, tonight, did I?’

Jim feels a flush creep over the back of his neck that’s utterly absurd, given that he’d been desperately grinding against the man a couple of minutes ago. He swallows.

‘No. You didn’t.’

He leaves quickly, and tells himself that he isn’t fleeing.

**

The time after that, they’re both so obviously stressed and tired and desperate for whatever it is they’ve found when they’re alone together in the dark that Jim is surprised they manage to wait until they’re in their usual room. He puts it down to mutual stubbornness.

Later that night, when Jim is in the shower, he thinks idly about how it might have gone if they’d just given into their instincts in his absurd drawing room. His mind lingers over scenarios. Leaning over him in that monstrous chair, slowly undoing layers of clothing that he could usually only hear sliding between them in the dark, slipping a hand beneath the layers. Or maybe waiting until he was invading Jim’s space again, and hauling him down to sit astride him, kissing him deep and slow with a hand knotted in his hair to hold him there…or…

The sound of the water pattering sharp and loud in the shower brings him back to himself. 

He lies awake that night, lonelier than he’s been in a long time. He’s acutely aware of the touch of everything against his skin, to the point of irritation – even though he saw him a few hours ago. 

It’s just stress, that’s all. Or one too many drinks before bed. 

He won’t be able to sleep, though, if he doesn’t satisfy this and, giving himself up to it, lets the pictures flood his mind as his hand slides downwards. He groans loudly when he comes – no need to hold back the sound here. The sound sends electricity down his spine, and he knows now that he wants to hear Cobblepot – not held back, muffled against his shoulder, but pushed to where he can’t contain himself any longer. He wants to see him too. Wants to taste him. Wants a lot of things. None of which are allowed. 

**

On his next visit, Jim is almost there, right at the edge. He’d shrugged his jacket off before they hit the wall – as undressed as he’s ever been here – in a concession to the humid night. As a result, Cobblepot’s mouth is pressed against his shirt, instead of his jacket, and it’s his hot breath against the thin fabric that tips Jim over. It takes self-control he didn’t think he had in him not to lean in for more contact, to step back instead.

**

When he visits next, Barnes had already been gone for five days – his ‘unit’ dismantled. Jim had made the right noises at the time, but had felt distant from the whole endeavour for a while now - increasingly troubled by Barnes’ inability to grasp why suspects and offenders could not be treated like enemy combatants – and drained by the effort of leading young cadets like some sort of movie ideal of a commanding officer. It's everything he ever thought he wanted, and he _hates_ it - all of it.

He’d felt exhausted and insincere any time he wasn’t here. The anger and frustration had boiled over at home, and Lee had finally put an end to things, and put an end to her time in Gotham. He’s happy for her, if he’s honest. She’s too sweet-natured for this town, for him.

He thought Cobblepot would have been less distracted and agitated this time, with Barnes gone, but he seems on edge again, for some reason. He grips Jim’s hips like he’s terrified to let go – like coming will solve all his problems. Jim can recognize that, has chased that feeling himself here before, and so he shifts his weight and angle to suit him, moves the way he knows will make him shudder and arch. 

He stares down, when they’ve finished, to the darkness where Cobblepot’s eyes should be, like he’ll see him if he just looks hard enough.

While they’re both straightening up, Jim asks lightly,

‘Pleased about the change in management?’

Cobblepot chuckles humourlessly. ‘If only that were my biggest problem.’ There’s a beat of silence. ‘I’m not sorry, though.’

‘Me neither’ says Jim. It’s surprisingly easy to say it here, in the dark, with him. Feels like a weight off his mind.

‘Why?’ asks Cobblepot.

Jim sighs. ‘I’ve been a soldier. I’m a cop. They’re not the same job. I don't want them to be the same job.’

There’s silence again as Cobblepot considers this. Jim thinks of the weight that’s just been lifted off his shoulders, and sees Cobblepot’s burdened expression again in his mind’s eye.

‘Tell me what’s wrong.’

The silence thickens. Jim waits until it becomes obvious that Cobblepot won’t talk, and leaves. 

As he drives home, he wonders if the fact that he feels offended by Cobblepot’s refusal to confide in him means he’s finally lost his damn mind to this town.

**

When he’s back home, later, he’s still unsatisfied – despite how frantic they’d been earlier - the usual calm that follows their visits elusive. He pours himself a drink or three, tries and fails to do some work, turns the TV on and off again. He eventually goes to bed, defeated. 

It’s only when he’s lying in bed, in the dark – coward that he is – that he can force himself to consider why he should be so bothered by Cobblepot’s refusal to talk to him.

The fact that the answer stings convinces Jim that it’s the truth. 

He’d found some _honesty_ with Cobblepot – of all people. Who’d built an empire on lies.

He doesn’t have to be the upright, stainless officer, there, or pretend he didn’t have doubts and fears. Why bother, when it’s just met with a shark-like grin? Cobblepot may have seen the best of him when he had spared his life, but God knows he’d also seen the worst of him since. Angry, self-righteous, obsessive… 

But there was never any surprise on Cobblepot’s pale face. Not at any of it. No disgust. No disappointment. He might mock him for his ideals, or chide him for his temper, or roll his eyes at his political ineptitude – but he took him as he was. His old friend, Jim Gordon. 

He certainly didn’t judge his need for him – welcomed it, reciprocated it. There were no barbs, no insinuations about that. Just a physical extension of their already complicated relationship. A mutual release of tension, that’s all.

Except now it wasn’t anymore, not for Jim, anyway, and doing what they had done tonight while pretending it _was_ just made a liar out of him there too, like he was everywhere else.

He rolls on to his side and stares at the closed curtains until light starts to creep round them. He has no clue, no fucking clue of where he’s supposed to go from here.

**

As it happens, the city decides for him

**

The next time Jim sees him is not at the grand mansion. It is back at the small club he’d been so proud to acquire all those months ago, and it is after everything has come tumbling down round his ears.

Falcone had returned from hiding, with a small but powerful group of loyal supporters. He had been making his presence felt for months, apparently, a veiled threat here and there culminating in Oswald’s mother making an extended ‘visit’ to Falcone’s estate. She had been returned unscathed – this time – but the message had been clear, and Cobblepot had acquiesced to a negotiated redistribution of power.

This was not as fatal as it might have been, as Falcone would have hoped. Cobblepot cannot be entirely removed, since his methods during his reign had won him fiercely loyal supporters of his own – but he is no longer King, power now divided between him and Falcone and another Don who had made an opportunistic play while the situation was unstable. 

Anyone else would simply have been relieved to escape alive, but Jim knows that he will be extravagantly despairing at this setback, seething with rage at the loss of control.

Jim has not been able to get anywhere near him during this time, and had had to content himself with eavesdropping on all the gossip he could, pressing information from those who had it. 

Cobblepot had not tried to contact him for help, either, not once. Had probably been terrified to talk to anyone once his mother had been involved, Jim guessed, which explains his nerves – even after Barnes had gone. Explains his refusal to confide in Jim, too.

His ego still smarts.

Jim had resolved that if he heard he was in immediate danger, then he’d go looking, and damn the consequences – but in the meantime had to let him play the situation out himself. 

He sees little point in pretending that he doesn’t miss him.

**

So when he hears that things have finally settled somewhat, that an uneasy truce is in place, he heads for the club. He is greeted by a weary looking Butch, who nods him upstairs.

‘Good luck with that. He’s been in a mood like you wouldn’t believe for days.’

When he reaches the door at the top of the narrow stairway, Jim does not knock. 

Cobblepot sits in an armchair, staring glumly ahead, sharp chin poked forward, fists clenched at his sides, all skinny limbs and contorted rage. When he realises Jim is there, he stands quickly. The movement is spastic and ugly, and Jim wants him very, very badly. 

When he speaks, he’s as angry and malicious as he was at their first meeting when he took power, all those months ago.

‘Well. _Detective._ What can I possibly do for you?’ A tight, angry smile splits his face. ‘I confess I’m rather surprised to see you, with your friend Falcone back in town. I’d imagined you’d be eagerly renewing your association – glad to be free of me. I’m not as powerful as a I was, after all – not as useful to a corrupt policeman as Falcone can be, with his political connections.’

Jim doesn’t say anything. Watches him quietly. Something like a grimace of pain passes over Cobblepot’s face, and he tries a different tack.

‘Unless, unless you’re here for… Ah. I see.‘ He sets his jaw and strides towards Jim as best he can, grasps his hips, and turns them both – so he is trapped between Jim and the door. He lifts one hand to flick off the light, and begins to move against him.

Jim reaches up, and turns the light back on. He doesn't return that hand to his hip, touches the side of his face lightly instead. More innocent and more intimate than anything they've done before.

Jim can see for a split second that his eyelids droop, that there’s longing there – but then his habitual mistrust sets in. He pushes roughly away from Jim and walks to the middle of the room, a safe distance, before turning to regard him with spite in his eyes.

‘You can bear to look at me now, then?’

Jim closes his eyes for a moment. It had been eating at his conscience for a while - in all the weeks he’s had to obsess morosely over the details, like he does - the fact that Cobblepot’s feelings for him had always run deeper from the outset, that he’d laid himself utterly vulnerable to scorn and rejection, gazing at Jim like he was the best thing he’d ever seen - yet their encounters had been stingy and furtive: in darkness, through layers of clothes, no sound, touches only where necessary. And he’d still taken it anyway, his usual touchy pride always absent when it came to Jim.

He’s not going to be able to reason with him right now. He’s too angry, and besides – Cobblepot is the eloquent one, not Jim. All he could do was make himself just as defenceless as Cobblepot had. Bare his throat, get on his knees, put the knife in his hands. 

‘I’ve wanted to look at you for a long time, now.’

Cobblepot’s face twists, infuriated by this confession and he flicks the light off again before he launches at Jim, pressing an inexperienced and angry kiss to his mouth, more teeth and a desire to wound than anything else – trying to goad him into their usual safe pattern.

Jim does not bite back, just slides his hands over Cobblepot’s back to draw him close and stands solid until his rage burns out. He can’t hide a hiss of pain, though, when his teeth nip Jim’s lip a little too hard and draw blood. He feels Cobblepot draw away abruptly.

‘Jim?’ His voice sounds more even, warmer, shocked back to normality. He reaches up blind to Jim’s face, fingertips finding the small smear of blood on his lip.

‘Oh – oh, no. I..I didn’t mean, well – I did...’ He’s the one to reach up to the light switch this time. His eyes widen and he makes a little sound of distress at the tiny trickle of blood on Jim’s lip – absurd, given what he’s capable of.

Cobblepot touches his thumb to Jim’s lip to wipe the blood away, but his eyes keep wandering back to Jim’s own, that wide wondering look in them again that used to make Jim so uncomfortable. Jim realises, now, that he wants to do that look justice, wants to prove – against Cobblepot’s every cynical worldly instinct, against his own jaded fears –that some things are worth that soft, longing look. 

He brings his hand up to cover Oswald’s own, and keeping his eyes on his, presses a kiss to his palm. Cobblepot lets out a breath that almost sounds like a sob, and something in Jim breaks, and somehow slow and careful has gone out the window and he’s kissing him desperately, dragging his lips down to his neck, pulling at his clothes until he can slide his hands along his skin. 

He can feel, though, that there’s still tension there – even as he gasps and clings to him, even though Jim _knows_ he wants this. Still wondering if this is just a prelude to another business arrangement. If this _is_ the business arrangement. 

He tries one final gesture to convince him that this is not a power play, that it’s not manipulation, that he is not using him.

Pressing his mouth to his ear, Jim whispers, voice rough and strained and completely sincere. 

_‘Please’._

And then they’re a tangled, blurry, perfect mess.

**Author's Note:**

> If you've got this far, thank-you for reading. I hope you enjoyed it.
> 
> This was basically prompted by the ludicrous amount of sexual tension in Jim and Oswald's first S2 meeting. I wondered what would happen if they decided to be work their tensions off on each other in their weirdly intimate relationship.
> 
> I worked in some s2 stuff, but I kept it deliberately light on plot because I really wanted to try and keep the focus on their interactions. And because I'm terrible at plotting :)
> 
> I'm not entirely happy with this, and may tinker, but I was starting to fuss with the details, and the only way I was going to finish it was by posting it.


End file.
